by Jessica Park
When the heavy blocks have been moved to his father’s incomprehensible degree of satisfaction, Chris is instructed to put his back flat against the wall and kneel with his arms out. Most important, he is to watch while his father continues to design the nine-foot-tall metal sculpture that occupies the center of the room. He is to watch while the artist lights the blowtorch and while he passes far too close to his eldest son. The heat from the flame can be felt with too much clarity, and Chris repeatedly tells himself that his father would not actually burn him. It’s the game that the artist likes, the taunting and the terrorizing. The utter exhaustion he causes. The breaking.
But I will not break, Chris screams in his head.
It’s been a while since Chris has had to prove his stamina like this, and he curses himself for having slacked off on working out. He is already worn out from the past few days, and his legs are shaking as a searing ache runs through his quads. Eventually his father has him stand up fully and raise his arms out to the side. The smell in the room is noxious, chemicals and burning metal. It’s adding to his queasiness. His arms are past the point of hurting. They tremble, but Chris will not let them drop, especially not while his father still holds that blowtorch. There are risks worth taking and risks not worth taking.
Chris is not sure how long he spends in the studio with his father, but his vision is blurred as he is led out of the room, so he knows it has been a long time. That first hit to the head was probably harder than he realized. He is taken out of the house and across the property. He is given instructions and then kicked in the direction of the ocean. It is when his father kicks him that Chris hears a small sound that is cut short. Before his father has a chance to make sense of the noise, to understand what it is or where it came from, Chris distracts him. He turns boldly to his father and finds the courage to mouth off. “What the hell is the point of this?” He earns a third hit to the head and double the task ahead of him. He has also spared the others. Getting caught hiding in a tree could be very bad for his siblings.
Before he returns to his madness in the studio, Chris’s father reminds him that he will be watching periodically. There will be no rest and no varying from the routine.
Chris walks ahead, relieved to be on his own for the rest of the afternoon, despite what he still has to do. He looks up into the tree and manages a smile. “It’s all right.” Chris knows it’s not all right that he is almost seeing double, but that will pass.
“Chris?” Sabin is crouched on a large branch against the trunk of the tree, and he has a firm hold on Eric and Estelle, both of whom look ungodly confused and terrified. The twins are not that little anymore—they are in middle school now—but they are not used to this. Chris and Sabin have protected them too much, so when they do see the truth, they freak.
“It’s okay, Sabin. He’s gone. I’m going down to the beach for a while. Why don’t you take Eric and Estelle to the movies? And dinner. Just grab your bikes and get out of here. Come back later tonight.”
“I’m not just going to leave—”
“Sabin, don’t! It’s not that bad this time. I promise you.”
Sabin pauses. “You sure? I don’t have a good feeling.”
“It’s almost over. Go on. I don’t want you guys around, or I’ll just worry. Please take them out of here. For me, okay?” He turns for the beach before his brother can protest.
“Chris!”
“What, Sabe?”
“Take this.” Sabin tosses down a red baseball hat. “For the sun.”
“Thanks, bro. Now go!”
“And here!”
Sabin drops two bananas into Chris’s outstretched hands. “Sorry. I didn’t think to grab anything else.”
“It’s all right, buddy. Thank you.”
Chris hesitates before putting on the hat. His father sent him out here in cargo shorts, no shoes or shirt. He’ll notice the hat for sure if he checks on Chris, but whether he’ll care or not is unknown. There are no guarantees, no rules. Chris decides it’s worth the risk because the sun is glaring today.
Chris scarfs down the bananas and then takes the two metal buckets from their spot on the boulder and begins. He starts at one end of the rocky shore, trudging through the heavy sand of low tide and into the salty water. The sting from the lashes on his legs is infuriating. This is a shitty enough day, and it would be slightly more manageable without the added pain. He berates himself for cracking that concrete block. He is strong enough not to have stumbled. Chris fills both buckets and walks to the other side of the shore where his father’s property ends, and dumps them out. He reloads and repeats the walk. This might not be so bad. Despite the circumstances, Chris loves the ocean. The smell, the sound, the view. It’s sensory overload, and it might help divert his mind, let him dream and fantasize about the good things that might come in the future. After this, everything will be exceptionally wonderful.
The first hour is tolerable. The salt water eventually feels soothing on his legs, and it’s probably good for cleaning his wounds. Plus, it’s helping to keep him cool on this hot July day. The water, despite providing the problematic weight in his already tired hands, is also his ally. He and the ocean are partners in this hideous day. It is not the water’s fault that Chris is suffering.
The second hour is tougher because his body is already so worn out. The past three days have been filled with grueling tasks, belittling comments, and threats about what will happen to the others should Chris fail at what is expected of him. As easy as it would be to let his mind take him somewhere else, into an imaginary world where this is not happening to him, he refuses to go that route. Escaping, blocking this out, will make him insane, he’s sure of that. Reality is crucial, he believes. Prayer will get him no relief. Begging the sky for a miracle won’t work. Chris is able to handle what his father throws at him, and he will just continue as he always has, shielding the other kids. The truth is that the gaps between his father’s episodes have gotten greater and greater over the years. It’s not as though every day in the house is filled with gruesome beatings. Save for a handful of physical incidents over the years, it’s all just a mind-fuck, and Chris will not let that drown him. He’s done everything that he can think of to take care of his brothers and sister, and he’s done a damn good job, too. Chris can’t exactly replace their mother, but he cooks, helps them all with homework, and does the laundry when his father lapses. He even walks Estelle to that church she insists on attending.
It’s during the third hour of this increasingly strenuous task that his resolve starts to crack. There is no part of his body or mind that does not hurt to all hell. It’s just water; it’s just water. How can carrying water be so bad? It can’t. Just breathe into it. Breathe into it and keep going. But every step becomes more burdensome, the act of pulling his feet from the sand more and more grueling. Every muscle in his arms feels like it’s going to tear each time he lifts up a new bucket of water. But if he stops, it will be worse.
He should have killed his father. He still could. He could kill him in his sleep with one of the hunting rifles in the house. Or he could poison his food. Maybe he’ll do that. For a moment Chris fantasizes about actually doing this, but despite all the reasons it would be justified, he knows that he isn’t capable and that it’s not right. And that having a dead father is a sure way to guarantee separating the kids.
He holds tightly to the vague plan in his head, which is merely that there is a future outside of this house. He will get his siblings to that future no matter what.
As his arms fatigue even more, the buckets drop down in his arms. He must make a conscious effort to keep his arms bent so that he doesn’t keep battering his thighs with the weight. Chris keeps a steady pace, though, because if his father should choose to look out from the upper windows of their sprawling house and see imperfection, one of the kids will pay the price later. As he mulls over the idiocy in perfecting such a meaningless task, he trips and spills half a bucket of water. Panic grips him, bu
t he continues on.
Sweat drips from his upper body. Chris can feel the sunburn on his shoulders and back. It’s going to make sleeping tonight terrible, but he should be exhausted enough that nothing will keep him awake. Still he feels near to fainting. If he doesn’t take a quick break, he’s not going to make it. His father is going to ring a bell from the deck to signal when he can stop, but that won’t be for hours, he’s sure of that. Chris turns to the trees and looks to the upper deck of the house by his father’s studio. If he’s checking on Chris, he will probably be looking from there. He leans his head to the side to look past one large branch of a tree, and seeing no one, he drops the buckets and leans over, placing his hands on his knees while he dry-heaves. Damn it. He needs water badly. Man, what he’d give for just a little water. Chris turns and wades into the ocean up to his mid-calves. As tempting as it is to gulp down ocean water, he’s not that dumb. He shakes his head. No, he’ll just make himself sicker.
Maybe he has no future after all. Maybe none of them do. Maybe the four of them are already broken beyond repair. Can they really have any sort of life after this? Probably not.
Chris looks out where the ocean meets the sky. He could swim to another shore, run off, and never come back. He contemplates the idea of immediate freedom. Maybe he really should swim out there and never come back. Give himself over to the dark water of the Atlantic. But he would never leave his siblings. Never.
Suddenly, Chris realizes that he is making eye contact with someone. She stands on a floating dock in the cove and looks back at him.
She is beautiful. He can’t even see her clearly because of the distance, but he can feel her beauty. He guesses that she is around his age. She probably has a wonderful, normal life, the way every teenager should. Exhaustion, sadness, and despair overtake him.
The girl gives him a small wave, and he waves back. He knows that he shouldn’t do this because his father might flip, but he can’t help himself. He is drawn to her. Wait, does he know her? No, that’s not it. Yet there is a familiarity about her presence.
She cups her hands to her mouth and yells across the water. “Hi.”
“Hi, back!” Chris replies.
“Are you … okay?”
Chris drops his hands onto his hips and looks away. Shit, she’s been watching him. He must look crazy. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“What are you doing? With the buckets. Are you in training for something?”
Chris can’t help but laugh. It wasn’t a bad thought. Maybe he could pretend he is conditioning himself for a triathlon or something. Instead he is training for survival. “Sort of.”
The girl calls out over the lapping water, insisting that he needs a T-shirt because he has a horrible sunburn. She pushes him to at least go get a shirt. Her yelling could be echoing up to the house, Chris realizes, and he glances back to make sure that his father isn’t coming. She refuses to take no for an answer, and when she starts to untie her rowboat from the dock so that she can come to him, Chris immediately yells, “No! Don’t do that!” If she comes to the shore and he is seen talking with her … God, he doesn’t know what would happen. He checks behind him again. Still safe. He feels awful yelling at her like this. She is kind. She knows something is wrong, he can tell, but he doesn’t want her worrying about him. “Just … No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Chris and the girl stand silently until he suddenly feels that they understand each other. He can’t explain his situation to her, and now she all at once seems to accept that. Chris struggles to fight back tears while they maintain eye contact. Perhaps it’s because he needs something, needs someone, but he is convinced that she is the reason he is not dropping to his knees and surrendering. This girl, he is sure, is his salvation, and he can practically hear the strength that she is sending him, the exact unspoken words that she hurls over the water. I’m here. I’m right here.
Part of him wishes she would leave. Stop looking at him. No good can come of this, he knows. But Chris can’t bring himself to ignore her, or be rude, or do more to push her away than he already has. When he tells her that he has to keep going, he can see her thinking, pondering what his actions mean. She knows he is in trouble, Chris can tell.
“I have to keep going,” he says desperately.
“I’m going to stay with you,” she tells him.
These are the kindest words Chris has ever heard, and it’s all he can do to answer her. “Thank you.”
He refills the buckets of water, walking them from one side of the shore to the other, emptying and refilling them. He treks endlessly through the mud, his feet often digging into shell shards. He recognizes that physically, he is near collapse. Mentally, too. She is the reason he can continue. He pauses once, noticing something in one of his buckets. A sea urchin. He is reminded how much life is out there in the ocean, in the rest of the world, all of it waiting for him. Maybe even she could be waiting for him. Who knows? But only if he can just do this. He takes the little green creature out gently and walks a few feet deeper into the water, letting it float to the bottom. With the current, maybe it will find its way to her.
Chris looks to her as he walks, nodding a bit. She is now in her bathing suit, having tied her red shirt to a life vest. Wait, what is she doing? Chris is moved beyond words when he understands.
“The tide is coming in,” she calls.
He watches as the current carries the life vest to shore. When it is close enough, he stops walking and puts down the buckets. Because his fingers tremble so horribly, it seems to take forever to undo the knots. She made sure they were tight enough so that the water bottle, in particular, would reach him. The red T-shirt that she has sent him feels like heaven when he puts it on, the cold fabric cooling off his shoulders and protecting him from further sun exposure. He glances at the house, and then he downs the bottle of water, raising it when he’s done.
He looks down at the shirt as it drips water over him. Matthews College. He doesn’t know where this school is, but it’s immediately clear to him that he will go there. All of them will go there. There will be college, and family, and joy. It’s a goal; it’s a future. It’s a goddamn plan. He smiles for a moment. Maybe he will even get the girl.
He will not fucking break. His father will not ruin him. Any of them.
Her voice sails to him once more. “I’m not leaving you.”
The sounds penetrates to his core. He feels partnership and love, and he realizes that he must be delirious because what he thinks so vividly is, She is the past and the present and the future. She is through, and over, and under. He knows this is inexplicable nonsense, but he lets her presence comfort him. So few things are comforting. She sits on the dock, unmoving, for the next hour and a half.
She is his rock and the reason that he is able keep moving until he finally hears the bell ring from the house. Tapping into his last reservoir of strength, Chris throws the buckets as hard as he can against a group of boulders near the shore. He did it. This bullshit, abusive task is done, and he made it. He paces back and forth for a minute, enjoying the brief high from completion. His arms are lighter now because he doesn’t have to carry the weight of the ocean, and he turns to the girl, the incredible girl who has held him up for hours, and he raises both hands into the air, his palms held high, fingers spread.
She raises hers, too, and they reach out as though they are touching palm to palm. Her fingers fold as if they are falling between his, and Chris makes the same motion. She has become part of him, this girl, and he lowers his hands to rest over his heart. He will keep her there always.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Because Of, In Spite Of
When I wake up, it’s cool and clear, with a bit of fog floating over the water. This is August on the coast of Maine: the opposite of Boston, where it can be so oppressively humid in late summer.
Sneaking out of bed without waking Chris, I make coffee and take it out front, where I gaze out at the beautiful coastline and warm my hands on my steam
ing mug.
Despite the gorgeous weather and the scenery, though, I can’t shake the feeling of dread that weighs on me. Maybe it’s just that I’m tired. Chris will probably tell me later that he slept through the night, but in fact, his sleep was severely disturbed. I know that he had nightmares, and I barely slept because of his thrashing and because of my worry. Chris is asleep now, though.
James and Estelle are entwined in the hammock that hangs between two trees on the far side of the lawn. I smile. They must have slept out here last night. I like seeing my brother taking care of her. Well, as much as Estelle will allow anyone to take care of her. He’s doting and affectionate without being pathetic.
I read the news on my Kindle for half an hour before James appears. He looks like hell.
“You need a coffee, huh?” I ask.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He pulls a sweatshirt over his head and sits down in the wicker chair across from me. When he rests his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands, I realize that something is very wrong.
I go to the kitchen and take my time making him a double espresso. Everything has been going so well, so James’s obvious stress concerns me. I think I was right: I am going to have to brace myself for this day. When I return, he is sitting up again, but his expression concerns me.
“Blythe, I need your help.”
I sit. “Anything. What’s going on?”
He looks away. “I don’t even know how to say this … I don’t know what to do or why …”
“Is it Estelle?”
“This is really uncomfortable.”
“It’s okay, James. You can tell me anything.”
He starts talking, but he still can’t look at me. “I really care about her, you know? I do. I think she’s fantastic. Sure, she’s got this kind of tough exterior and all, but she’s super sweet, too. She’s smart, and funny, and wild.” He pauses. “It’s the wild part that … It’s not right, Blythe.”